


felis catus

by manhattan



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Canon Compliant, Cats, Chance Meetings, F/M, Falling In Love, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Blue Lions Route, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, I Would Kill For Annette and So Would Felix, Post-Time Skip, Spoilers, Surprise Kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2020-03-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:55:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23272084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manhattan/pseuds/manhattan
Summary: On the subject of Felix and felines: an unwitting comparison and an excuse.Or, the war settles, Annette does not, and Felix just keeps happening.
Relationships: Annette Fantine Dominic/Felix Hugo Fraldarius
Comments: 16
Kudos: 161





	felis catus

**Author's Note:**

> the premise of this fic: annette strikes me as a cat person. felix strikes me as a cat. in this essay i will--

The war has settled comfortably, and the monastery tightens its belt. The kitchens serve gruel more often than not, and Annette has nothing to feed the cats with.

Years ago, she would beg the kitchens for whatever scraps they could spare; maybe some students were picky eaters, maybe there were some leftovers. And in the free hours of the occasional evening, she would crouch down by the docks and whisper at the cats.

In summer, when the sun stretched for a little longer, Annette would sit on the docks and coax the warm cats into her lap. Soon, she knew which ones wouldn't mind sharing the space with a book.

Against all reason, the cats are still here. Some are older, some are missing, and some are new. But all of them are slender, and Annette glares at the gruel when it sloshes in her plate, hating it for its liquid and hateful brown consistency.

"Now, now," Mercedes says, ever accepting of the twists and turns of fate, "it's better than nothing at all, Annie."

"What? No way – I'm going to take up fishing!" Annette replies, ever defiant of the circumstances of life.

Mercedes only smiles, lowering her gaze to her lap.

In the end, Annette does not take up fishing. The fishkeeper states, with good reason, that the fish are accounted for, miss. For the meals, and all. And, anyway, soldiers should have better things to do, shouldn't they?

"Oh," Annette replies, feeling suddenly very silly, "I suppose we do."

It's the first time she is called that, and she does not forget it again.

* * *

It is a mystery whether the old cats recognize her, but Annette likes to believe they do. There's circumstantial evidence, at least. Whether from the way they rub against her calves or from the way they slink down from piled crates and rooftops to twine between her feet. One of these days, she is going to trip and fall over—or worse, step on an errant tail.

"Oh, no, I don't—" she says, peering around the stack of books in her arms, "sorry, mister cat, but I _really_ must get going. Busy-busy, you know what it's like."

"What?" Felix says, staring at her from the stables.

Annette _feels_ her embarrassment as it curls in her stomach and then rises to spread on her face. It feels as if the winter sun has shed its layers and now aims directly at her, ignoring all else.

"Felix!" she exclaims, and almost stomps her foot with how angry she is, because how dare he always witness her lack of propriety? He can't keep getting away with this! "What are you doing here!?"

Wordlessly, Felix raises a hairbrush, and the horse behind him breathes deep, impatient.

"Well, that's—good for you," Annette manages, as the Brigid Shorthair at her feet whines and curls its tail. "Wait," she realizes, "I thought you were supposed to train with the Professor today?"

"And I thought cats couldn't understand human language," Felix replies, and tips to lean against the stone wall. His mouth tips, too. "Apparently, we were both wrong."

There it is again, that blasted sun in her face. Were that it shone this brightly when the library's candles aren't enough to light the pages.

"Oh, you, you—ugh!" She is so out of it she can barely find the words she wants to say. Her brain, it seems, is better at memorizing other people's schedules than it is with vocabulary. "Do you _enjoy_ watching me suffer, Felix? You do, don't you! Well, what's it going to be this time?"

"This time?" He raises one eyebrow, and that confusion almost looks real. The horse behind him is flicking its tail here and there, swatting flies. "What are you talking about?"

Like he doesn't know. Like, five years back—well.

"Should I take over your duties? Do you want my share of the rations—or maybe you want my gruel? I can't go without food, Felix! It's bad food, granted," she acquiesces, cocking her head, "but it's food nonetheless, and I'm a growing girl, and magic is so exhausting, what if – what if I faint during a battle?"

"Annette," Felix says, and his smirk is sharp, growing.

"They'll mock me forever, like a saint but backwards, kind of," she gasps, and steps closer to him. "The tragic tale of Foolish Annette, who keeled over for lack of nourishment."

The very thought of it horrifies her. What would Mercedes say? What would her uncle think? All those years bringing her up, looking after her mother, paying for her education. And now she's gone off and died in the middle of some woods because Felix stole all her food. How could he?

"Annette," Felix repeats.

"What will I tell my uncle, Felix?" Annette whispers, eyes wide. If her hands were free, she would likely be grasping at his arms now. "House Dominic will be forever stained by my malnourished failures."

"Annette," Felix says, and there's laughter in his voice, well-disguised but not enough to pass unnoticed. "You'll be late for your seminar with Hanneman."

"Oh!" And just like that, the world slides into its well-oiled rails, and Annette blinks. "You're right! I have to go," and she looks over her shoulder as she does so, taking care to swerve around the Shorthair, "but don't think this is the last of it, Felix!"

Felix's smile, behind his hand, burns into her mind for the rest of the day.

* * *

Dogs are fine. It's just—they're very cute, and she enjoys the way their tails wag, but you can't take a dog into your lap. Not comfortably, at least, unless it's a puppy, or one of those company dogs that the ladies back at home carried against their breast. Like a doll, Annette always thought, so quiet and polite.

But, and this is where their fatal flaw lies: dogs always get their drool on her books, or they gnaw at their spines, or they stink, and she can't have that. No, cats are better, because cats are the perfect study partners.

They are quiet, most of the time; they are warm, always. Occasionally, she finds a cat who's a big fan of purring, a small little energy ball in her lap that settles her heart and mind when she's feeling antsy.

It is a pity, then, that they aren't allowed in the library. Tomas—the real Tomas—was insistent on it, as was the librarian before him, and the one before that. By now, Annette suspects it's more a matter of tradition than functionality, which doesn't really help her get over her cold lap.

"If _I_ were the librarian," she grumbles, playing with the frayed edge of a page. There would sure be some changes around here!

"Are you applying for the position?" Felix asks, sliding into the seat next to hers with such nerve and grace that Annette can't even think to turn him away. The book he slides against the wood concerns essays on battlefield strategy.

There it is again, that summer sun, probably sneaking through the cracks of the roof.

"Felix," Annette greets, despite the heat, and very resolutely turns to her book.

Thankfully, Felix leaves it at that, but not before giving Annette a long, evaluating look that borders on staring. How her ears warm under his gaze, and she wonders what could possibly be on his mind—because something must be. People don't go to libraries to stare at other people, after all.

Felix cracks open his book as he finally averts his gaze, and it's only a matter of minutes until Annette is once again immersed in the world of her book. Gauze and linen, what to apply after a healing spell, how to knit back bones.

She can decimate a foe without blinking. She can light a candle with her eyes closed. She's even managed to learn how to smooth over minor cuts and scrapes. But if someone needs a healer, she is still not the one for the job.

Felix clears his throat. Under the table, his foot bumps into hers, then withdraws. Annette thinks of the curl of a playing paw, pad-pad-padding at the twists of her pigtails when she's trying to focus.

"What is it, Felix?" she asks. Only half as terse as she feels, still stuck on pink paws and how Felix's hands are slim and nothing alike. Why is she thinking about this, anyway?

"About the cats," he replies, turning a page with distracted disdain.

Annette colors, but does not give in.

"What about them?" she defies.

He pauses, looking around without moving his head, and then sighs. He does not look at her during any of this.

"How do you catch them?" Felix asks, lowering his voice.

... Is he embarrassed? His expression betrays nothing. But Annette has this hunch that he would prefer if this conversation were not to be mentioned outside of this moment.

"I don't _catch_ them," she giggles, trying to smother her laughter against the back of her hand, "how do you even begin to catch a cat?" Her eyes flit up to the darkened ceiling of the library. There are still cobwebs up there, dusty lines drawn for five years. "I guess you could, maybe – you're pretty fast, and you probably don't tire easily—"

Felix only looks at her in silence, stone-faced.

"—but it's just, I don't know. They're all too happy to come meet me!"

"That's helpful," Felix says, dripping sarcasm all over.

Annette frowns at him, feeling the new and sudden urge to smack him with one of her books. Or maybe his—it seems suitably heavy.

"Have you tried feeding them scraps?" she asks, reigning in her annoyance. "I used to, before the – um, before. It's a lot easier after they see you as the Food Handler, you know?"

"I remember," Felix says, and he's smiling, does he even notice? And Annette's tummy is tingling—and then, like he's realized something, his face scrunches up and he's on his feet, closing the book and averting his gaze. "Whatever, this was a waste of time."

"Felix," Annette says, trying to talk over the tingles rising in her throat, "we could – I could help you with the cats. And we'd be even, then."

He frowns at her, confused, but he has put his dramatic escape on hold, so Annette supposes that's a good sign?

"What about?" Felix asks.

"You _know_ ," Annette hisses, and leans in over the table, lowering her voice. "About my discussion with," and here she falters, embarrassed, but manages to get it out, "with mister cat!"

"Ah," Felix says, smirking, "that's right. I'd forgotten about that."

Annette highly doubts it.

"Fine," he says, like he's doing her a favor. Maybe he is? Annette is starting to lose track of who owes what to whom. She should probably draw a scoreboard of some kind. "You could even throw in a song, then."

"Felix!"

They get asked to leave the library after Annette squeaks her displeasure with Felix's suggestion. Which is embarrassing, and now she's got to go study somewhere else! But Felix looks like a cat who got the cream, the lines on his face smoother, his mouth a little curved.

Now she's got to study somewhere else, but it doesn't annoy her as much as it should.

* * *

War gets in the way, as it so often does.

One month brings Annette to the ward. Taking over Mercedes after the injuries are easy enough to heal. Watching Manuela steal soldiers back from the tight grip of death. Taking notes on procedures and anatomy when she can.

Another week, and the Professor divides them into scouting teams. Meant to defend their imagined borders and the merchants who feel safe within them.

One more day, and Annette is keeling over the desk in her old room. Trying to make sense of her uncle's letters and what House Dominic expects of her.

She does not see Felix as much as she thought she would. If it disappoints her, well, she keeps it to herself.

* * *

The greenhouse flourishes in spring. Annette brushes dirt out of her hands and works diligently during her time off. The Professor drops by occasionally, looking tired but pretending not to, and Annette wishes she could do more.

The cats prowl at the entrance, meowing and yowling at each other, then disappearing to alleys to act out their spring-brought desires. Annette looks at the grains and seeds in her hands, a juicy promise of growth, and wishes cats were as fond of fruit as she is.

"Hey, Professor," she asks, even if she knows better, "do you think cats like peaches?"

The Professor, leaning over the raised bed, looks over Annette's shoulder before answering. The orchard, still recovering from years of negligence, rustles its leaves softly as a breeze rolls in through the open windows.

"I wonder," she says, and she is exhausted. With the war; with Dimitri's changing humors. "What do you think, Felix?"

Someone must have closed the door of the greenhouse, because now Annette is sweating under her clothes. She rolls her sleeves up even more and turns away to poke the seeds into the soft, warm earth, and does not look over her shoulder.

"I doubt it," Felix replies. His voice sucks up all the humidity of the greenhouse, that's how dry it is. "Anyway, Professor," he adds, walking past Annette, "about this month's tournament."

Oh, Annette hates how sneaky and quiet he is. She puts that hatred into poking, poking, and then smooths the earth over the holes with a spiteful sort of care. Fire will trick the seeds into growing faster, but she doesn't trust herself not to mess up with Felix so close.

And he is close, now that the Professor has excused herself to go check on someone else, or go do something more, because she never stops. Felix bends over the raised bed, smelling of soap, and stays there.

Annette can't take it: "What? What is it?"

"Just looking," Felix replies, unmoving. "What are you planting? Peaches for the cats?"

"No," Annette pouts, coloring, "that would take too long. Just," she shrugs, "some stuff. Flowers, mostly. I'm not so good with vegetables."

Dedue was—is, planting and caring for seedlings like a loving parent. Honestly, that man could grow an orchid in a salt desert. But his return, joyous by some accounts, deemed miraculous by others, has been marred by Lord Rodrigue's death. And even if Felix acts like nothing is wrong, Annette doesn't want to mention it anyway. Are they close enough that she should, though? Or are they close enough that she should know better than to try?

"Hm," Felix says, and decides to sit on the edge of the raised bed.

Annette can't let them fall into silence. Silence means thinking, and that only means over-thinking, and Annette keeps remembering the way Lord Rodrigue smiled at her. They looked so alike in their smiles, even if Felix's are so rare.

"Do you like flowers, Felix?"

"Not really," he replies, staring at the dirt. "They don't _do_ anything."

"They smell nice," Annette retorts, like it falls upon her to defend the honor of flowers. Maybe it does. "And they brighten up a room! And—"

And they can be braided into wreaths. Annette's voice dampens with the thought, and her hands fall flat in her lap.

"And, um," she tries, "you can give them to people you care for."

"Do you often go around giving flowers to people?" Felix asks, smirking.

"Well ... No, not really." Annette rises to her feet, brushing her hands together over the raised bed. Flecks of dry dirt fall from between her fingers. "But it's a nice gesture, wouldn't you say?"

Felix watches her hands; from the dirt to the watering can, rusted but still functional. Annette showers the seeds with a curt movement, hoping not to drown them, and then sets the watering can down, sighing.

"You know, Felix, if you had a favorite flower," Annette says, sitting next to him, "I'd plant it for you."

Felix says nothing. His eyes are bright, clear, as they slot into hers—then move away, focusing on the entrance of the greenhouse. It's quiet, save for the tweet of unseen birds and the rustle of the orchard.

"I'm not one for flowers. How about a song?" he asks, and it's lacking its usual edge. The purr of a cat, as opposed to a polished sword.

Annette finds that she can't bear to look at him, either. It's too much. What is? She's not sure, but it is too much.

"Sure," she says, and her dirt-dusted fingers twine, release, clasp against the fabric of her dress. She clears her throat, dusts off the tingles. "A song it is, then."

In the greenhouse, her voice dampens, made small by the leaves and the dew. But the way Felix looks at her throughout the melody ... It makes her feel like she's standing in the chapel, and her song echoes through every room of the monastery.

Felix kisses her before it's over, and every gesture is raw, even as his hands tremble when they grasp at her face. A softened callus brushes back her hair and settles behind her ear. Annette still has the final note stuck in her throat, and it flourishes into surprise, a gasp, a moan.

Whatever it is, it pushes Felix away, and Annette is left there staring at him.

The greenhouse is unbearable in its heat, now.

"I'm sorry," Felix says, mouth damp with what he found in hers. He doesn't make to get up, but he averts his gaze, his face. His hands move from Annette's face to his own, and he is a statue of a crying man: dry-eyed, but in position.

"It's okay," someone croaky says from inside Annette. She is thankful to whoever it is, this new captain of an aimless ship.

"We should go," Felix says, and now he is recomposed. On his feet and waiting for her to follow.

They don't talk about it, after. It's too early to make promises.

Felix accompanies her to the dining hall and disappears once Mercedes greets her, and that's all. The cats yowl and purr at the corners of the castle, and soon enough there will be new cats, soft, small, high-voiced, stumbling.

All Annette can think about is soap and calloused hands. And other things, damper and new.

Spring has gotten its sweet thorns in her, too.

* * *

Again, the infirmary takes up her time when her training does not. Annette finally learns how to push her spells into a person's lungs and pull them back into the world of the living. ... She wishes she could learn without the risk. She wishes she were back in Firdhiad, just her and Mercedes and a mountain of books. She wishes she had never seen her classmates' eyes when they died.

At night, hands washed pink, Annette lingers by whatever stairways the cats have chosen. They crowd around her empty hands, foreheads butting against her palm, their cries like begging.

"I'm sorry," Annette says, and her voice is water in an unsteady cup. "I don't have anything to offer you."

The cats don't understand. They purr and nip at her fingers, tails curling around one another, and they skitter away when faraway footsteps make their way into a closer spot. Their eyes like dark moons, flashing as they watch, green and yellow and blue.

"It's late," Felix says, but not harshly. "You'll be useless tomorrow."

She would like to say, _Felix, could you kiss me again_ , because maybe that would untie the knot in her chest. She would like to say, _I'm sorry for your father_ , because maybe it would untie the one in his. And Annette can't remember ever swallowing her words before. But these are different times, now.

"You're right," she sighs, and gets to her feet.

The sudden movement finishes what Felix's approach began. The cats curve around the crates and gallop, unseen, into the gardens. Annette and Felix stand there watching the empty stone, flickering here and there as the torches burn.

"Oh, I forgot!" Annette exclaims, and then sighs. "You could've petted one, Felix! Ugh, they were right there, too ..."

Felix doesn't smile, but his face relaxes, and that's a win in her book.

"I'm not going anywhere," he replies. "There'll be time, later."

"Promise?" Her tone is airy, bright, but the night swallows it up until it's only a whisper.

In the distance, crickets and frogs are chattering. Felix takes Annette in without words, and it's barely a step between them. Again, that nagging thought surfaces, and she finds that she is staring at his mouth.

"Come on," Felix replies, turning away with a click of his tongue.

The knot in her chest tightens with every step they take, quiet as field mice in a pantry, and Annette finds herself wishing that her room was just a little further away. Just a little.

Soon, they'll end this war. For the better, or for the worse. She shouldn't be thinking of what comes after without the certainty that she'll survive it. She shouldn't.

She does. Felix kisses back when she pulls him by the arm, throwing him off-balance so easily that he will likely be upset about it later. He is so warm, and, once the surprise has left his body, he is firm, and he steps in after her once her door gives way.

Propriety is a slap on the face, leaving her red and warm and disappointed once he pulls back.

"I'm not going anywhere," Felix says, low-voiced and dark-eyed. His hands are flat against her bed, five taut fingers on each side. He's bending over her, sloping away from the covers, and she might love him for real.

"There'll be time later?" Annette repeats, smiling up at him, and Felix's face flushes dark. It's obvious even in the dark; so endearing. But he soldiers on.

"I promise," Felix says, stepping away, _and she might love him for real_.

He closes the door behind him when he leaves. Annette sits in her bed, heart racing, and listens to him stand at her porch for a full minute before padding away in feline silence.

* * *

In the end, it's her who knits back his skin as they sit on a palace stairwell. Mercedes watches Annette finish up as she catches her breath, hands pink. The Professor makes her way through the corridor and into the throne room.

The aftermath feels like a weird dream. It's so quiet in here. Outside, too. Annette is afraid that if she blinks for too long, the spell will shatter, and she will find herself at the beginning of the battle again. In front of her classmates again, with fire in her hand and dread in her chest.

Felix's skin joins at the seams under her hands. Annette is plucked out of that worry and placed into this one, which is much less horrifying and a little more blissful.

"Thanks," Felix murmurs, looking at her intently.

Mercedes excuses herself to look after someone else, somewhere else. Annette should listen, but she doesn't. She is barely even remorseful about it.

"You're welcome," Annette replies through her grin. Her cheeks hurt. "But – we're even, now."

Felix's look of disbelief is a sharp, quick thing. It fades when she presses her hand, bloody still, into his face. Clutches at his jaw like a vice, even if it slips a bit. But he lets her. Does he know she has to make sure of this? Of him and his life, still here for her to enjoy?

His pulse, steady, runs into her other hand. Her selfish palm around his neck.

"We're not even," Felix grits out, when he's had enough, and shakes his head out of her grip. His smile could kill her, it's so sharp, and it's aimed right at her heart. "You said I'd pet a cat. I didn't take you for a liar, Annette."

 _Oh_ , this man! Annette's hands ball into tiny, sticky fists. She very nearly smacks him in the face with one. But:

"I'll wait," Felix says, a new sentence but an old sentiment. One that he has repeated ever since the greenhouse. She is always grateful to hear it. How it mollifies her so. A hard candle, warmed and shaped into a soft ball of wax for him to play with.

"Me, too," she says, and wipes the blood off his face with her sleeve. "You'll see, then. You won't be able to look at kitties the same way again."

His gaze, dark, full, could mirror a cat's eye at night, or a new moon in the winter.

* * *

Summer rolls in easy, hitting its peak when the Empire falls. As the army returns home, Garreg Mach opens its doors, and offers a place of rest. The final step before the last, until they're all in their homes, their Houses, and life is what it once was.

The pond, she hears from her father—in a rare show of fatherly conduct—is fully-stocked after the army's absence. Thus Annette goes down to the dock after lunch, belly full and heart expectant, and sets her sights on the pond.

The fishkeeper must recognize her, because he smiles, and offers to show her how to throw a line. He's throwing bread pieces into the lake. Real leftovers! Annette almost thinks of running back to the kitchens and begging for scraps.

But she needs to do this herself. She asks for a piece of bread, instead, and crushes it into her lap. Bubbles pop where she throws the crumbs, then disappear. Golden, grey, tangerine flashes of scales and fins. They're fast, these fish.

The sun lays across her like firelight, warm and bright, and Annette's toes are in the water. She wants to cry, or laugh, or explode into sparkling cinders like a fireball.

Felix sits next to her without noise, but she felt the planks shift with his steps, and she doesn't give him the pleasure of her own brand of surprise.

"Here you are," he says, and steals a crumb off her lap, flicks it in the water. A carp sucks it in, then disappears into the blue-green depths.

"Shh," Annette whispers, all dramatic, and motions for him to sit closer, closer, until their thighs are flat against one another. It's not very comfortable. "Look," she adds, and leans in more than she needs, "over there."

Felix's face has grown pink, now, a subtle flush that he could blame on the sun. His eyes follow the line of her finger to land on a Brigid Shorthair by the crates. It is a large cat, a hoary ball of cat baking in the sun, and it stares at Annette with large eyes.

It blinks slowly, one paw sliding against its ear, and Annette brushes Felix's hair away from his eyes.

"See?" she says, and she's forgotten all about the fishing pole she borrowed. No, instead Annette pokes out her hand and beckons, whispering and cooing at the old cat like a mother to a rebellious child.

Felix's eyes are on the cat, still, but his hand has found its way to Annette's back. It sticks to it like glue, open and warm, warmer than the sun, and she leans back to feel it better.

The old cat drops from the crate with an inquisitive meow, and lifts its nose here and there. The smell of fish must be distracting. And so Annette swoops in! She captures it without mercy and maneuvers it into her lap without fuss.

Felix's laugh is abrupt, louder than she is used to. He is beautiful then, all alight by the sun, his eyes crinkling into joyous lines. If Annette hadn't been sure of her intentions before, she would be now.

"I knew it," he says, curling his fingers under the cat's warm chin. It sticks out its face for more, even as it burrows its sharp paws in Annette's lap.

"What?" Annette asks slowly, readying herself for battle.

"You do catch them," Felix says, and his palm covers the Shorthair's eyes, "just like you did me," he adds, and leans in.

"I didn't," Annette huffs, torn between laughing and pouting. "You were all too happy—"

His kiss bars all complaints, warmer than the season, longer than she expects.

The cat in her lap purrs as it snoozes, oblivious or uncaring, and stretches across both their laps.


End file.
